


Morning Cardio: A Joltolock Workout

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Men in uniform, Military Kink, Sorry Not Sorry, Voyeurism, soldier kink, workout class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-30 15:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11466756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: What if Sherlock Holmes stumbled onto a boot camp class being taught by the sexy-as-fuck couple of John Watson and James Sholto? And what if they wanted a third, and worked *really* hard to recruit their new student?





	1. Warm-Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janto321 (FaceofMer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/gifts).



> I'll go ahead and dedicate this to janto321, who prompted me for some more fluffy Parentlock. But this idea wouldn't get out of my head, and it seemed like an appropriate sacrifice to the porn goddess.
> 
> The rating will bump in the next chapter. Oh god, will it. *fans self*

“For God’s…sake…Graham…slow DOWN!” Sherlock stopped at the top of the second flight of stairs, bent double, and was forced to work much harder than was reasonable to catch his breath.

“Quite sure I don’t know who you’re talking to, Master Holmes.” Greg Lestrade peeped down from another floor up, barely sweating, his grin telling everyone present exactly how much he was enjoying this torture.

He turned to Anderson (the _utter wanking useless prat_ , Sherlock thought) and inquired, “Do you know any _Graham_? ANYONE?”

He looked up the stairwell to Sally Donovan, who was on the fifth floor, scaling the stairs rapidly in heels and not even breathing hard.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, sir. But I do know that Scotland Yard’s newest consultant’s physical fitness isn’t up to par.”

She threw an evil smirk toward Sherlock, who was finally standing, hands on hips to activate his accessory muscles of respiration. “I guess shooting heroin doesn’t do much for heart health, eh?”

“Okay, Sal. That’s enough.” Lestrade was now descending back to Sherlock’s level, the concern in his eyes plain. “Seriously, though, mate. You alright?”

Still breathing a bit harder than strictly acceptable, Sherlock Holmes shook his head, grimacing as drops of sweat flew off his curls and landed on the concrete stairs and metal handrail. “I admit…* _gasp_ *…I may have lost…* _gasp_ *…a tiny bit of my…endurance.”

Lestrade clapped a hand on Sherlock’s back before slinging an arm around his shoulders. He shook the detective from side to side in a friendly rugby-teammate kind of way, then leaned in to his ear and whispered, “I guess it’s time to deploy _Geoff_ Lestrade’s Physical Training Course.”

Sherlock clamped his lips shut, deciding to save his breath for the long climb and deductive fireworks ahead. But he sincerely hoped that the detective inspector wasn’t serious.

**********

It appeared he wouldn’t be that lucky. At the ungodly hour of six the next morning, Lestrade was pounding on the door to his flat. Sherlock flung open the door to let him in, making sure to shout an indignant “HUDDERS!” down the stairs to express his displeasure at her poor visitor screening.

“Oi, watch the eardrums, mate. And really, you should be nicer to your landlady. She’s got to be, what, seventy?”

“Seventy-four,” Sherlock admitted, a bit ashamed at his conduct.

“Seventy-four…” Greg shook his head, “and still in shape to kick your arse.” And he actually had the _nerve_ to slap the consulting detective on the left cheek of said arse. “Go ahead, mate. Get changed into one of those god-awful ”Shezza” getups of yours. We’re going running.”

**********

They barely made it into Regent’s Park before Sherlock required a water break. Lestrade projected nothing but annoyingly cheerful persistence, jogging in place and pointing to a bubbler. “Get yourself a drink, then we’re right back to it.”

Sherlock’s dagger-sharp glare was wasted as Greg turned his attention toward, of all things, an _exercise class_ just across a small footbridge. Sherlock dropped his head to gulp away his thirst and quickly rejoined his friend, wiping the back of his hand across his lips.

“Let’s jog that way,” Greg nodded toward the group. “I think it’s one of those boot camp deals. I’ve been thinking about joining up.” He lifted the bottom of his sweat-wicking shirt and smacked his hand over the non-existent fat on his abdomen. “I’ve been letting myself go a bit since we had the kids.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, attempting to avoid the spectacle his well-muscled acquaintance was making of himself. “Oh, do shut up. And let’s get on with this. The sooner we circle the park, the sooner you’ll leave me the hell alone.”

But in averting his eyes, Sherlock glanced toward the class and caught a glimpse of short blonde hair, a metallic flash of dog tags bouncing off a hard chest, the blur of desert-camo-covered thighs moving double-time.

“But yes, let’s head this way,” he said, taking off at a brisk pace to cross the bridge.

**********

It was times like these, with fifteen urban tech employees whining and sweating before him, that John Watson began to question his choices in life. Not the medical training, mind, or the two tours in Afghanistan.

No, _those_ were fine choices, even if that second tour had ended with him taking a bullet to the shoulder. It was letting his therapist and his boyfriend talk him into co-leading this _fucking_ boot-camp workout.

Sure, exercise was good for the shoulder. Good for his mind, come to that, which had not been quick to adapt to the end of active military duty. And the sight of James Sholto just after he stripped off a sweat-soaked shirt near the end of each class, standing off to the side and just glistening like the fucking Adonis he was…well, John thought that was alright, too.

It was the fake smiling he hated, the cheerleading…acting like it was okay when, after eighteen thrice-weekly class meetings, the unmotivated _civilians_ in front of him still couldn’t hold a squat for more than ten seconds.

John blew out a disgusted breath and stopped the high-knee interval five seconds early. It was clear that no one in the class could keep up with the workout plan. As he turned to James to shake his head and motion for him to take over for the cool-down, his eyes caught instead on a _very_ good looking man jogging toward him.

The man had horrible running form. And John would swear he didn’t like skinny blokes. Or pale skin that nearly blinded him as it reflected the rising sun. Except that he did.

Because the first time he tumbled another bloke had been with the water-boy of his college rugby team in a deserted locker room after his last game. And that gangly teenager had looked one hell of a lot like the lanky piece of arse coming his way.

John cut his eyes back to James, who knew about his partner’s dirty little fantasies. And John knew about James’s penchant for exhibiting his body. His intention must have been easy to read, because the red-headed man nodded, no hesitation, and a plan began to form in John’s mind.

All they needed was a hook. Watson winked at his superior officer, and Sholto reached behind his head to peel off his shirt as John flagged down the approaching runners.

While the silver-haired bloke had his head turned to survey the class in action, listening to the sales-speech John could recite without thought (new session starting soon, first class free, why don’t you stop by tomorrow to give it a try), John caught the brunette’s gaze, then let his eyes take an excursion down and back up that beautiful body.

John laughed quietly as the pale man’s eyes nearly bugged out of his face. The man in question cleared his throat and elbowed his companion…hard, his eyes moving from John’s clothed chest to James’s glistening pectoral muscles.

“* _Ahem_ * Yes…Greg. Why don’t we plan on this tomorrow, instead of a boring jog around the park?” John snickered again as the companion gave him an incredulous once-over.

As the men ran off down the path, the devious soldier turned back to his partner and offered a small, efficient salute meant to say _We got him, commander_.


	2. Stimulus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone ever tell you I'm a tease? Because I am. 
> 
> But really, I spend 1700 words talking about hot male bodies here. So...

Newly committed to fitness, or at least to watching men in uniform pursuing it, Sherlock was up and dressed for a workout at 5:30 the next morning. He had been pacing the floor of the sitting room for fifteen minutes when Lestrade finally graced his doorstep. The impatient detective brushed past him with a brusque “Hello, Griff,” then clambered down the stairs, and broke into a jog.

Greg caught up within a few strides and began happily chatting away. “I’m glad to see you’re a bit more excited today. Did you get the runner’s high, then? It’s great, yeah?”

Sherlock saved his (rapidly dwindling) breath and concentrated on running, putting on a burst of speed as they entered the park.

“Looks like we’re here in plenty of time,” Greg continued to voice the obvious as they crossed the small footbridge. Sherlock slowed to a walk, dabbing his face with the small towel he had brought along. One couldn’t be seen dripping wet and panting at the _start_ of an encounter with two gentleman-soldiers.

The class was small, only three other people crazy enough to rise at this hour. And speaking of rising, Sherlock calmly _adjusted_ himself just before his eyes caught and absolutely melded to the sight of the two instructors lying entangled on the grass.

The older man, ginger-haired with freckled arms bared by his athletic tank, was sprawled on the ground beneath the younger blonde who was—Sherlock angled his head to the side for a better look— _helping_?  With some type of…stretching exercise. He was wedged between the first man’s thighs, his left hand pushing his partner’s right leg toward his head, pelvis rocking into the wide V of limbs.

“That’s a…* _ahem_ *…that looks like a good, umm, _deep_ stretch,” Sherlock couldn’t help the deepening timbre of his voice, neither could he remove his gaze from the writhing mass of men.

Greg pulled _his_ eyes away from a busty young woman who was holding a chest stretch to comment, “Oh, yeah. Partnered hamstring stretch—great move. You want to try?”

“Oh _God_ yes…” Sherlock muttered, then shook himself out of his lustful daze. “What? No! Of course not!” He cleared his throat as he pushed his workout partner away. “When does this class _start_?”

The two detectives snapped to attention as the blonde man clapped his hands.

“Oi! Listen up, soldiers. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m Captain John Watson, and this is Major James Sholto. Today we’ll warm up with jacks, knee raises, and windmills. Then we’ll move on to push ups, lunges, and sit-ups. If anyone’s still standing,” his dark blue eyes surveyed the group and he huffed out a small laugh, “we’ll do some vertical jumps and laterals. And end with some…stretches.”

Sherlock could have sworn John’s eyes locked with James’s at that last statement, but the moment was gone with another set of claps.

And then the torture began.

**********

His smokers’ lungs didn’t fare too well during the alternating intervals of brisk jumping jacks and high knee raises, and soon Sherlock was gasping for air. He managed to catch his breath with the abdominal-focused windmills, but after James Sholto modeled proper push-up form, he was panting for different reasons.

The _arms_ on that man, shiny with a thin sheen of sweat, the well-defined muscles flexing in the most delicious ways as his body lowered smoothly, hovering an inch above the ground before rising back up. Sherlock wanted to be _under_ that man for the next repetition.

“Holmes! Are you just going to stand there, or do you want to get a workout?” Sherlock jerked his head up at the admonishment issuing from John Watson, who was standing five feet away, arms crossed, muscular forearms bulging, a knowing and amused gleam in his eyes as they gave the detective a once-over before he nodded down. “On the ground, soldier.”

Oh, the indignity…the pain…the suffering! Sherlock finished five push-ups before collapsing, face to the ground, to rest. Partially recovered, he raised his sweat-covered head. And immediately lost his breath again.

Now Captain Watson was on the ground, doing a one-handed modification of the horrible exercise. Sherlock could see a small damp V darkening the back of his cotton t-shirt and wanted to lick at the moisture to replace that which had disappeared from his mouth.

John held himself at the top of the next rep, propped on a single rock-solid arm. He turned his head to the detective and _winked_.  Sherlock’s bottom jaw fell and John laughed, dropping his head as he went back to his exercise. He barked out, “Holmes. Lestrade. Give me twenty more apiece.”

When that exercise was finally over, Sherlock pushed himself to his knees with shaking arms, then had to take a break before he could press to standing. Back on his feet, he pushed dripping curls off his face and wiped the sweat from his brow, caring very little for how he looked. This was the _stupidest_ idea he had ever had and, really, it served him right for thinking with his…

“Cock!” Greg burst out from beside him. “And utter fucking bollocks.” The mobile in his hand vibrated incessantly and he looked from it to the class leaders with a tight frown.

“Sorry, boys. I’m needed at the Yard. Forensics dropped the ball on some important samples.” He turned and began his jog back to the car he’d parked on Baker Street, but stopped after a few strides. “Holmes! You coming?”

Sherlock shook his head minutely and turned back to the group, waving his right hand over his shoulder dismissively, “Nothing you can’t handle, Lestrade. I’ll catch up after class.” 

He saw John turn to James with a smile that could only be described as _filthy_ and decided that he had made the correct decision.

**********

John talked the class through a squat/backward lunge/forward lunge combination as James demonstrated, then started them on their own sets of twenty-five and began a slow stroll around the group, ostensibly to observe form.

If his stroll came to a stop behind a certain lanky brunette with an arse that defied physics _and_ propriety, well, wasn’t that understandable? The new class member was, without question, the weakest, and therefore needed the most instruction.

He watched as Sherlock dropped his butt down and out into a chair squat. The thoughts it inspired caused him to wet his lips. And the way the man’s sweats stretched around first his left buttock, then his right as he completed a set of front lunges....in addition to making it quite clear that Sherlock Holmes was not wearing underwear, the sight left little to the imagination. What it did leave, however, had John biting on his first knuckle.

**********

Sherlock felt warmth behind him as he stood, breathless and attempting to rally for two more sets. The pressure of a pair of hands ran down his back to settle on his hips before he felt a puff of breath against his right ear.

“Looks like you could use some help with form and positioning.” Somehow John made the completely reasonable observation incredibly suggestive. Sherlock held his breath as the man behind him smoothed his hands down both sides of his right thigh and blew the air out forcefully when it was pushed away from his other thigh.

John laughed quietly in his ear and repeated the motion with the left thigh. If his hands lingered a bit at the apex, cupping and gently rolling Sherlock’s balls with his fingers, no one else seemed to notice.

“The exercise is much more effective if you feet are hip’s-width apart. Not that your arse needs much work,” John whispered before licking a single stripe up the left side of Sherlock’s neck.

James clapped and John grumbled. Sherlock bolted upright from where he had been resting bonelessly against the soldier’s chest.

“This next exercise requires a partner. Watson, you’re with Holmes.”

Sherlock was confused when John came around from behind him and sprawled on his back on the ground, feet angled toward him. “Have you never done a sit-up?” John’s voice sounded teasing.

He rose up, legs bent, and pulled at Sherlock, dropping him to his knees. “These,” John said, tapping the distal end of Sherlock’s thighs, “go on my feet, as an anchor.”

Sherlock moved his feet into position and John nodded. Their faces were only inches apart as the captain’s eyes flicked down to his lips.

“Let’s go, men!” The major clapped again, and John fell backward. Sherlock nearly canted forward into the space left behind, and had to move his head back when John’s face rapidly rose back to his level.

“Sit-ups,” he said, and grinned wickedly before reaching down to grab the hem of his t-shirt and tug it over his head. Then he was back on the ground again, and Sherlock was absolutely hypnotized by the core muscles contracting rhythmically. He felt his cock filling, growing hard against his left thigh. And given their close position, it was rising to attention along John’s right shin.

Watson paused at the too of his next repetition, moving his shin slightly forward to apply pressure to Sherlock’s aching groin before commenting, “Mmmm. Feels like we’ve got a real fan of physical fitness here.” 

Sherlock whimpered and shifted, bracing both of John’s feet with his right knee and positioning himself so that the soldier’s shin would rub against his prick with each jerking movement. The other man licked his lips and resumed his exercise.

Sherlock was in heaven. The friction against his shaft was exquisite, the periodicity divine. He felt a small bit of wetness at his tip and ground himself even further into John’s shin, letting his eyes drift close as he listened to the hard inhales and exhales of the man below him.

But before he could complete his climb to blissful pleasure, Sherlock felt larger splotches of wet...on his face, his shoulders, his back. He opened his eyes and tilted his head up as the sky split open into a downpour of rain. He lowered his head to regard John, whose face was scant inches from his, arms wrapped around knees, gaze considering.

This time, even Sholto’s claps couldn’t distract them. Sherlock leaned in and kissed his soldier. He made a quiet noise in the back of his throat as hands grasped his shoulders and their mouths opened to deepen their connection.


	3. Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do we really need this? There's a Whole Lot of Fucking. Because I don't do things halfway, y'all.

John had been quite surprised when the dishy detective leaned in to kiss him. And he had shocked himself when he joined in, pulling the man hard against him by his shoulders. It truly wasn’t his style, not even with James, to kiss during foreplay. But it was nice…so _very_ nice to get lost in another man’s mouth.

John perceived some type of shelter from the rain hitting his back just as scratchy beard stubble grazed the skin between his shoulders. That sensation was rapidly replaced by teeth on his left shoulder, applied with enough pressure to pinch, but not quite enough to break the skin. He gasped, breaking the kiss, as the teeth captured his earlobe. He rubbed his lips helplessly against Sherlock’s as James spoke directly into his ear.

“ _Tsk tsk_ Really? Out here in the open?”

John twisted his torso to glance around the park. Class had adjourned, leaving only the three of them. By the time he turned back, James had pulled Sherlock to standing and captured the man’s mouth in a series of wet licks.

“Well, the workout doesn’t _have_ to be over. The Hub is just…” he motioned with his left hand, “three hundred meters that way.”

“Mmmmmm…” Sherlock’s voice was a nearly subsonic rumble of assent, and the vibration went straight to John’s balls. He felt his waning erection begin to fill again as the group double-timed toward the small building.

**********

For all he fantasized about sex, especially sex with men in uniform, Sherlock Holmes’s partnered experience was minimal. The soldiers grabbed handfuls of each other as they entered the small locker room, and the scene playing out in front of Sherlock had him leaning weakly against the door, the lock mechanism he had just secured digging in beside his spine. The press of the metal served as a reminder that it wasn’t just a daydream this time.

Major Sholto was standing behind the Captain, drying him with a towel they’d snatched from a pile on the nearby bench. Sherlock watched as it ran over Watson’s strong arms, heard the man hiss as the rough terry-cloth was dragged across his well-muscled chest, leaving red skin and hard nipples behind. John turned his head back in an attempt to capture James’s mouth, but the other man had already stooped to loosen his buckle and unfasten his fly.

James straightened and tossed the towel aside to run his palms down John’s flat stomach, stopping at his waistband to push the fatigues off his slim hips. He let his fingers slip inside the rim of the heather grey cotton briefs as he licked some left-behind drops of moisture off John’s shoulders.

His partner huffed out an impatient sound that pitched up into a whine as James slipped his hand into the drawers to cup the impressive bulge there. The shiny, dark pink head of John’s cock popped out above the elastic band. James kissed the sounds off his lips and pushed his pants down as well, then circled his fist and began to pump.

“Oh God, so gooooood.” John’s praise burst forth as a groan, and Sherlock pressed a hand against his own prick, needing pressure to temper the intense arousal that seized him as he watched fat drops of pre-ejaculate leak out of John’s tip and spread over his hard shaft.

And then John’s legs were shaking and his hands moved from holding James’s hips against him to frantically grasping for his shoulders. “I’m gonna…oh. Oh, James. I’m almost…”

Sherlock was across the room and on his knees in a second, mouth open and ready to receive whatever John had to give. When John’s orgasm was delayed just a second more, Sherlock hummed eagerly and placed his mouth over the crown, letting it rest on his tongue.

“Oh shit oh _shit_. Sherlock!” John looked down at him as his hands found purchase in dark curls. James’s fist fell away and John thrust into the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth, fucking him in hard, deep thrusts. He held his breath and opened his throat, concentrating on John’s face, slack with pleasure, and James’s pleased look as he kissed John’s shoulder and smiled down at Sherlock.

Bitterness bloomed over Sherlock’s tongue, and he swallowed the first three pulses then pulled off. John surprised him with a fourth shot, which streaked across his lips and chin. And then he was done, head hanging limply, shaking fingers gripping the back of Sherlock’s skull.

Seconds passed as John regained his strength. He lifted his face to regard Sherlock as he ran his left thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip, gathering the shiny white mess before moving it to his lips and sucking it clean, “You…are a keeper.”

He was once again pulled to his feet and into a kiss. James huffed a laugh and reached around their embrace to strip Sherlock’s t-shirt over his head, forcing the kiss to break and John to pause, considering.

“I think…I want you...bent over this bench.”

The soldier turned Sherlock gently then bent him double, so he was positioned with his elbows on the wooden bench, his ass angled lewdly into the air. Captain Watson ran a gentle hand down Sherlock’s back, eliciting a shiver, then grasped and wiggled sweatpants to ankles. Then John knelt as if before an altar, hands caressing Sherlock’s arse. He pulled the cheeks apart and licked his lips, glancing over his shoulder at Sholto, who loosened his own trousers and reached inside to begin slowly stroking himself as he watched.

 

James Sholto had seen many beautiful things. The rising sun the first morning he knew John would survive his gunshot injury…that was stunning. The landscape of London appearing as their flight home emerged from the clouds…John’s face with every orgasm James had given him…those were _fantastic_ sights.

But the vision of his lover so immersed in the experience of eating out another man, tongue lapping over his hole before pointing to poke at the puckered flesh…that topped it all. James cursed lightly, giving his dick one last squeeze, and walked closer, positioning himself so he had a view from above.

 John’s blonde hair rustled quietly as he pushed his entire face into the cleft, shaking his head back and forth as his tongue worked to further loosen Sherlock’s hole. He pulled back and rubbed his left thumb over the pink skin, allowing just the tip to sink in as he leaned back to look up at James.

John’s face shined, his smiling lips dripping with saliva. James grinned and nodded back toward Sherlock, whose high-pitched mewls had been replaced by grunting demands for further attention. As his love bent back to his work, James began to caress Sherlock’s hips and ass.

The moist noise of John’s tongue continued, Sherlock’s moans grew in volume, and James retrieved a foil packet from his right pocket. He pushed his own fatigues and pants down, then opened the package and rolled the condom onto his dripping cock. He stroked once, lazily up and back down, before resting his left palm on John’s hair.

John broke from his enthusiastic exploration of Sherlock’s ass, glanced up, and smiled. He scooted aside and let James take his place behind the detective. Sherlock felt the cool air of John’s absence and began to complain in a broken voice, turning his head to glance over his shoulder just as James slid home. He let his head fall onto his crossed forearms as the percussive sound of hips and balls slapping against his perineum filled the locker room.

 

 “Oh fuuuuuuck.” John was momentarily mesmerized by the display: James’s hard prick disappearing into Sherlock’s reddening hole, the sway of James’s balls with each jerk and thrust.

He scrambled to his feet then collapsed onto the bench next to Sherlock’s left elbow. He unlaced his boots and stripped his lower body of clothing. Although he had come only minutes earlier, his erection was back. He fisted it, stroking in time with James’s cadence as he caressed Sherlock’s neck and shoulders with his free hand. The man turned towards him, revealing the bliss on his face. This expression was quickly replaced by a surprised eyebrow raise and lascivious lip lick as he took in the sight of John’s renewed hardness.

John glanced up to James in supplication and found him gazing back. The commander slowed his thrusts, allowing Sherlock to lift off the bench so John could slide over, positioning himself to receive pleasure from that posh mouth.

 

Sherlock was in _heaven_. That was trite, nearly idiotic, he knew, but it was truly the only way to describe it. The tangy taste of semen mixed with the mustiness of sweat as he enthusiastically worked John’s cock with his mouth.  But that potent cocktail of sensations paled in comparison with the slide of James within him.

The only complaint he had was that his bent-double position meant that James’s thrusts slid along the posterior of his canal, completely missing his prostate. He drew off John, leaving a sweet kiss on the head of his cock, and pushed himself to standing.

And…there. There it fucking _was_. Sholto was clutching him back against his chest, and each thrust, while not as deep, pushed directly along his most sensitive spot. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at John, who was leaning back on his hands, cock jutting upwards as he took in this new development.

“You know, Sherlock. James thinks I’m much better at finding the prostate than he is.” John swung around to position a leg on each side of the bench, and lay back, the wooden platform ending just below his buttocks. He stroked himself once, then again, letting his hips follow his fist on the second pass.

Sherlock wanted desperately to ride him hard. The embarrassment of riches he was being offered had turned him greedy, and he reached back to still James’s hips. He bent forward slightly, wiggling, until James withdrew. He reached into his sweatpants for another condom before toeing off his sneakers and stepping out of the wet cotton. _It’s a good thing I got the larger size_ , he thought.

Sherlock stepped up to the bench and swung his right leg up and over, seating himself on John’s thighs.

“Mmmm, the single leg-over,” John murmured, unable to keep the smirk off his face. “That’s one of my favorite moves.”

Sherlock shot him a chastising glance and reverently rolled the condom on. John’s eyes fell closed. While they remained so, Sherlock rose up, positioned that glorious cock at his entrance, and sank back down, his own eyes closing and his head falling back with the wave of pleasure.

John’s hands were on Sherlock’s hips, guiding him up and down, sliding his oh-so-tight passage over his shaft. And _oh my god_ , it was glorious. The view wasn’t bad either, he thought, as he followed the undulating muscles of the body above him. The detective opened his eyes to wield that gray-blue gaze back at him, his eyes almost _pleading_. John surged up, cupping the back of Sherlock’s head and pulling him nearly parallel to his chest for a deep kiss. His tongue mimicked the motion of his prick, and Sherlock cried out in ecstasy.

“Yes, John. _Yes_. Right _there_.” His feet dropped to the floor, and he began to piston himself up and down, whimpering with each stroke of his prostate. John reached down to grasp Sherlock’s dick, feeling the luxurious slip of foreskin as he stroked.

The air around John became warmer, and he looked past Sherlock’s slack face to see James, his mouth positioned at the detective’s ear.

“Have you ever been taken by two soldiers at once?”

John felt Sherlock grind down even harder as he panted out his approval.

“Not today, though. It’s a bit of an advanced move, even for a quick learner like you,” James kissed Sherlock’s cheek and then was gone, back up to half-standing. He removed his condom and allowed his prick to fall in the cleft of the detective’s ass. “For now, I’ll have to settle for covering you in my come.”

Sherlock cried out and tried to resume his movement, but the workout, combined with the _after_ -workout, had turned his legs to jelly.

John shushed him, pushing sweaty curls off his forehead and placing a kiss there, then on each of his eyelids. The three men paused, catching their collective breath before the final sprint.

“It’s alright. We’ll take care of you,” John whispered.

And with that, he began slowly thrusting, filling Sherlock with each slow roll of his hips. James moved in tandem, sweat and precome acting as lubricant for the glide of his cock in the canal between luscious cheeks.

“Fu….” Sherlock began, then broke off with a moan. He began again, his words fragmented by frantic panting, “Fuck. Touch me… _someone_. Touch my cock…. _John_ … ** _please_**!”

It took only one quick jerk, and Sherlock was spilling, his abdomen quaking, the muscles in his pelvic floor contracting rhythmically. John tipped over next, crushing Sherlock against him and biting into the crook between neck and shoulder as his hips bucked uncontrollably.

 He opened his eyes and looked straight at James, who thrust twice more. Then he was grunting out _his_ orgasm, streaking white onto pink skin before he leaned forward to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s bony spine.

After a minute of noisy breathing from all three men, James stood, slowly, and bent to retrieve a towel.

Sherlock sat up, and John shivered, the movement stimulating his over-sensitive flesh. Major Sholto wiped down Sherlock’s back, then their fronts. Finally, he bent to kiss Sherlock’s lips. John considered the sight, head propped on his folded hands.

He sat up, slowly slipping out of Sherlock, and gathered the detective in his lap, nuzzling into his neck, his bite-mark glowing red against the pale skin there.

“Well, then. You’ve completed one workout…do you want to see some more?”

John rested his lips against Sherlock’s Adam’s apple and felt that deep voice vibrating with laughter, then moaning luxuriously as he replied, “Oh GOD yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...there we go. I've never written anything nearly this smutty (my only other explicit scene was a pretty tame hand job, which you can find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8229538/chapters/19371820). So...yeah. Please let me know if I did okay. Concrit is always welcome. ;)


End file.
